The Pandora headed north along the east coast of Australia. But as the frigate rounded Cape York from the Great Barrier Reef and entered the Torres Strait on 29 August 1791, disaster struck.
The Breezer - A weekly newsletter from Steve Winduss at the Batting the Breeze podcast. Spend a few minutes with me exploring historical snippets and fascinating facts related to the forthcoming week.2nd November 2025.
Happy Sunday! A couple of days ago the British press erupted with news that sent shockwaves across the country. King Charles had stripped his younger brother of his princely title.
That means that Andrew - formerly known as Prince - will henceforth be called Andrew Mountbatten Windsor. This is an almost unprecedented fall from grace for a member of the royal family.
To rub salt into his wounds, the King is also evicting Andrew from his sprawling 30-room Windsor mansion. He will soon have to slum it in a modest five-bedroomed property on the King’s Sandringham Estate in Norfolk.
The British public has been increasingly unimpressed that Andrew’s close ties to convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein seemed to have been quietly ignored. Consequently, the press has closed in on Andrew like a hungry shark with a scent of blood in the water.
There’s something primordial about the process - a collective itch to see justice done, a thirst to watch someone who behaved badly get what’s coming to them.
The former Prince Andrew, 2013.
This current method of retribution is positively civilised compared to previous eras. In the 17th and 18th centuries, hunting down wrongdoers who’d fled British justice didn’t involve press releases and strongly-worded statements. Instead, the Royal Navy would be dispatched to the four corners of the world to haul the miscreants home - where justice, and probably a noose, awaited them.
When Captain Kidd turned from privateer to pirate in the 1690s, the Crown dispatched HMS Advice to transport him home from Boston, Massachusetts for trial.
When the pirate Bartholomew Roberts terrorised the Atlantic in the 1720s, it took HMS Swallow several weeks of relentless pursuit before finally killing him off in battle within sight of the west coast of Africa.
And then there was perhaps the greatest pursuit of them all, tracking down the mutineers of the HMS Bounty.
Ask someone about the Mutiny on the Bounty and they’ll probably mention Captain Bligh, breadfruit or Marlon Brando.
In 1789, the HMS Bounty was indeed transporting breadfruit from Tahiti to the West Indies when Fletcher Christian and 24 crew mutinied, casting Captain William Bligh adrift in an open launch with 18 of his men.
The HMS Bounty arrives at Matavai Bay on the north coast of Tahiti, 1789. Painting by John Hagan.
Three thousand six hundred miles later, Bligh had successfully, and miraculously, navigated the treacherous Coral Sea and Torres Strait to reach the Dutch haven of Timor.
The Dutch settlement commander, Mynheer Wanton, extended hospitality to Bligh and his crew, after which the English contingent returned home.
On hearing of the mutiny, the Admiralty bristled with indignation. How dare such an outrage occur under King George III’s colours? Their response was swift. First Lord of the Admiralty John Pitt commissioned one of His Majesty’s ships to hunt down the mutineers, arrest them and bring them home to face British justice.
And that ship would be the HMS Pandora.
Out of Curiosity The film Mutiny on the Bounty premiered at the Capitol Theatre in New York City 90 years ago next Saturday, 8 November 1935. Clark Gable played the dashing mutineer Fletcher Christian while Charles Laughton magnificently portrayed Captain Bligh. The film claimed the Academy Award for Best Picture in 1936.
Charles Laughton as Captain Bligh in the film Mutiny on the Bounty, 1935.
Edward Edwards was born in Water Newton, near Peterborough, in 1742. He joined the Royal Navy at the age of ten and was appointed captain of the HMS Pandora 38 years later.
Edwards’ baptism on the Pandora wouldn’t be the gentle learning-the-ropes exercise he might have hoped for. Instead, he’d be leading a manhunt across the world’s oceans to seek out and capture the 25 Bounty mutineers.
HMS Pandora had been gathering barnacles at Chatham Docks for seven years before being hauled to Portsmouth for a facelift and adaptation for the voyage.
She gained four new 18-pounder cannons and was laden with enough provisions to last the 160-man crew well beyond the initial four-and-a-half-month leg of the journey to Tahiti.
The ageing 24-gun frigate set off from Portsmouth in pursuit of the mutineers 235 years ago this Friday, 7 November 1790. Captain Edwards gave instructions to head for Cape Horn at the southern tip of South America, then onwards to Tahiti.
Edwards struck gold when he landed at Matavai Bay, Tahiti in March 1791 and immediately rounded up 14 of the 25 fugitives. Most of them surrendered voluntarily. Despite living in paradise for two years, they preferred to take their chances back home.
Besides, at least four of them weren’t mutineers, but loyalists who couldn’t originally join Captain Bligh due to overcrowding on the open launch.
However, Fletcher Christian and his remaining ten crew weren’t on the island, so the search went on.
The crew of HMS Bounty had mutinied because of Captain Bligh’s cruel treatment to his men. Ironically, Captain Edwards served up similar helpings of cruelty to the same men once they were captured.
He kept his captives in a poorly ventilated wooden structure on deck, with little room to move. Their hands and legs were clapped in irons, and they were obliged to eat, drink, sleep and respond to calls of nature without leaving the makeshift cage.
The crew referred to this hellhole as ’Pandora’s Box’.
The hunt for Fletcher Christian and the remaining mutineers dragged on for the next four months. They island-hopped to the Society Islands, Cook, Union and Samoan Islands, Tonga, Tokelau and Rotuman - a grand tour of the Pacific’s most remote real estate.
Not a trace.
On 16 March 1791, Edwards discovered Ducie Island - a speck of coral that happened to sit just 290 miles east of Pitcairn Island, where Christian and his mutineers were, at that very moment, building their new lives.
A few more days’ sailing on the same bearing and the chase would have been over. However, Edwards turned north.
View of the Pacific Ocean showing the Pitcairn Island Group (including Ducie Island) and its proximity to New Zealand and South America.
By August, the scent had gone cold and the captain decided to head home without Fletcher Christian and the remaining mutineers. The Pandora headed north along the east coast of Australia. But as the frigate rounded Cape York from the Great Barrier Reef and entered the Torres Strait on 29 August 1791, disaster struck.
The HMS Pandora hit a reef.
Captain Edwards tried to haul the ship off the reef with its anchor, but the hull was already nine feet deep in water. Despite pumping out water through the night, there was no hope. Within minutes of Edwards giving the order to man the lifeboats, the Pandora heeled over and sank.
Ten of the prisoners had been released to help with pumping water. As the four still chained in Pandora’s Box pleaded for mercy, the master of arms yelled…
Never fear, my boys, we’ll all go to hell together.
Thirty-one of Edward’s men perished along with the four captives trapped in Pandora’s Box.
The HMS Pandora founders on the edge of the Great Barrier Reef, 1791. Etching by Robert Batty (1789–1848), from an original sketch by Peter Heywood (1772–1831).
Out of Curiosity…
The expression ‘Pandora’s Box’ originated much earlier than the 1790 voyage of the HMS Pandora.
The Ancient Greek author Hesiod wrote the epic poem Works and Days sometime between 750 and 650 BCE. The poem describes the Five Ages of Man.
According to Hesiod, Zeus - the king of the gods - created the first woman, Pandora, to enact revenge on mankind. Zeus endowed Pandora with beauty, charm and cunning. He also bestowed her with the quality of curiosity.
Zeus gifted Pandora a jar containing sickness, death, sorrow, greed, envy, hatred, pain, war, poverty and… hope. He told her that she must not open the jar under any circumstances.
However, because he had blessed Pandora with curiosity, Zeus knew that she couldn’t resist opening the jar. And she did. All the misery and evil escaped from the jar to spread over mankind.
Only hope remained behind.
Hesiod’s story of Pandora marks the end of the Golden Age. It explains the origins of human suffering and the presence of hope as a tool to help endure that suffering.
In this engraving, the artist Giulio Bonasone (1531-76) subtly balances out the misogynistic myth of Pandora’s Box by showing Epimetheus, Pandora’s husband, opening the 'jar'.
Later in the 16th century, the Dutch theologian Erasmus mistranslated ‘pithos’ (jar) as ‘pyxis’ (box) when he wrote Adagia, a book of proverbs and sayings. Easily done.
Today, calling something a ‘Pandora’s Box’ suggests it may appear harmless at first, but might trigger unexpected and irreversible chaos later.
For instance, the internet is a technology that promised connection and knowledge, but also delivered cybercrime, identity theft and a spectacular array of mental health complications nobody predicted.
Artificial Intelligence might be the next Pandora’s Box.
William Bligh had navigated an extraordinary journey from Tonga to Timor when he was set loose from the Bounty in 1789.
Captain Edward Edwards had set out to track down the mutineers of the Bounty. The irony may have been lost on him at the time, but Edwards was now following in the wake of Bligh’s gruelling second leg across the Timor Sea in identical open boats.
Seventeen days and 1,375 miles later, having survived the Torres Strait and the Arafura Sea, Edwards and his remaining men arrived at Timor.
The Dutch settlement commander, Mynheer Wanton, was once again on hand to offer Edwards the same hospitality that Bligh had received two years earlier.
Edwards returned to England, was court-martialled in September 1792 for the loss of HMS Pandora but exonerated after supportive testimonies from his officers.
Captain Edward Edwards never returned to sea. He retired to Cambridge and passed away in 1815 aged 73.
Dates with History
Wednesday…
In England, the 5th of November is marked by a display of national eccentricity that would baffle any rational observer. We build the largest bonfire local fire regulations will permit, crown it with the effigy of a medieval chap called Guy Fawkes and set the whole thing alight while unleashing fireworks in all directions.
And it’s all to celebrate one of the greatest failures in English history.
Four hundred and twenty years ago this Wednesday, 5 November 1605, the Gunpowder Plot was foiled. Thirteen would-be regicides plotted to blow up the House of Lords during the State Opening of Parliament.
Their intention was to kill King James I and as many of the Protestant aristocracy as they could. As Catholics, their freedom to worship had been severely curtailed since Henry VIII’s Act of Supremacy in 1534.
The conspirators had planted 36 barrels of gunpowder in the cellars under the House of Lords. Due to a tip-off, in the early hours of the morning the authorities searched the cellars. They found an odd-looking chap lurking in the shadows.
The suspicious figure was wearing a cloak, hat, riding boots and spurs. Close to him were the 36 barrels of gunpowder, some slow matches, touchwood and, I assume, an escape plan. He gave his name as John Johnson.
The following day while being tortured, Johnson decided that "I was just browsing" wouldn’t cut it, and revealed himself to be Guy Fawkes. He also revealed the names of his fellow conspirators.
Robert Catesby, Thomas Percy and the Wright brothers died in a shootout three days later on 8 November 1605. Guy Fawkes and seven of the plotters were tried the following January and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.
As for Francis Tresham, the last of the conspirators, he died in the Tower of London under mysterious circumstances before he could face trial… but I’ll save that tale for another day.
Eight of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators. From left to right: Thomas Bates; Robert Winter; Christopher Wright; John Wright; Thomas Percy; Guy (Guido) Fawkes; Robert Catesby and Thomas Winter.
Talk to me...
I am lucky enough to receive some great feedback about The Breezer from readers. We're all curious and find a wide range of historical characters and events fascinating. But occasionally, a specific subject will resonate all the more. If you have any areas of history that resonate with you, I would love to dig deep and include them in future Breezers. Just drop me an email at steve@battingthebreeze.com and let me know. Thanks, Steve
A moment in time
The first Tacoma Narrows Bridge opened to traffic on 1 July 1940 after less than two years of construction.
The bridge was a marvel of engineering. She spanned 6,000 feet across Puget Sound, 25 miles southwest of Seattle, Washington State, as the crow flies.
She was the world’s third-longest suspension bridge. Only New York’s George Washington Bridge and San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge were longer.
Most importantly for the locals, the new bridge saved a two-hour trip from Tacoma on the east side to the Kitsap Peninsula on the west.
However, what the Tacoma Narrows Bridge saved in time, she made up for in excitement.
In anything but very light winds, the bridge would ripple like a flag in a breeze. Perfectly acceptable behaviour for a flag, rather less so for a bridge. The locals nicknamed her ‘Galloping Gertie’ - though given the bridge’s tendency to undulate rather than gallop, ‘Rippling Rita’ might have been more apt.
Anyone who’s pushed a child on a swing understands resonance instinctively. Time your push perfectly, and the swing goes higher and higher with no additional effort. That’s resonance at work.
Every object has a natural resonant frequency, and if you apply force in sync with it, the movement amplifies continuously until something breaks. (Best to stop pushing the swing before that point.)
When an opera singer hits the exact resonant note of a wine glass, it will eventually shatter. When wind blows across a bridge at right angles and matches its natural frequency, the structure will amplify its own movement until it tears itself apart.
And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
Eighty-five years ago this Friday, on the morning of 7 November 1940, 38 mph winds were pulsing up Puget Sound and across the beam of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
At first, she rippled, then she undulated.
The Tacoma News Tribune received word of excessive movement in the bridge. Howard Clifford was dispatched to take a look. Exhibiting the professional death wish of a true photojournalist, Howard walked onto the bridge, snapping like crazy.
He wasn’t the only one snapping at that moment.
While on the bridge, Clifford tried to rescue Tubby, a beleaguered spaniel, from an abandoned car. Unfortunately, the terrified dog bit him with sufficient enthusiasm to end the rescue effort.
By 9.30 a.m., a lateral twist appeared in the central span of the bridge.
Howard Clifford staggers off the Tacoma Narrows Bridge just before it plunges into Puget Sound, 7 November 1940.
In this dramatic photo taken by freelance photographer Jim Bashford, you can see Howard staggering off the bridge just in time.
At 11 a.m., the bridge structure failed. Ten minutes later, the central span lay at the bottom of Puget Sound. If you'd like to see the bridge in its final death throes, check it out here.
Luckily, no one perished that day in November 1940 - except for poor old Tubby.
Feeling nervous about your next suspension bridge crossing? Don’t worry. The 1940 collapse provided excellent learning material for engineers. Modern suspension bridges - including today's Tacoma Narrows Bridge - are designed to stay firmly horizontal in strong winds.
Question of the Week
She was born in 1900 in Atlanta, Georgia.
She started her career as a journalist for The Atlanta Journal in 1922.
Her first book, published in 1936, sold a million copies within six months.
The book was turned into a film featuring Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable. The film won ten Academy Awards.
Her first book turned out to be her last.
Who was she and what was the name of her book?
And Finally…
“We’re going to hijack a bus on Oxford Street. Do you want to join us?”
That was the proposition to Sue Elsegood, a wheelchair user from Greenwich, South London, in July 1989. But this wasn’t an anti-apartheid protest or a march against the Poll Tax.
The battle had been raging up the road in Westminster for years.
Between 1983 and 1989, six civil rights bills for people with disabilities were introduced to Parliament. Six times Parliament debated whether six million British subjects deserved protection from discrimination. It seemed a reasonable request. But apparently not. Six times Parliament voted ‘no’.
Sue had been invited to join The Campaign for Accessible Transport (CAT) on one of its protests. The demand seemed reasonable enough: people with disabilities should be able to use public transport like everyone else.
Apparently, making this happen required a nudge. Eight CAT members were planning to bring Oxford Street, London’s main shopping artery, to a complete standstill.
The plan was to park their wheelchairs in front of the very buses they were protesting against. Westminster would have to take notice.
Sure enough, amid the mid-morning rush, Sue and the other seven parked themselves in front of buses along a stretch of Oxford Street. Traffic was completely halted, shoppers stopped and stared, taxi drivers fumed.
Sue was now committed. She wouldn’t move until either Parliament voted through an appropriate civil rights bill or she was cured, whichever came first.
As it turns out, neither occurred that day. The police swooped soon after the television cameras arrived, and arrests for obstruction of the highway began.
The situation soon descended into farce.
It proved impossible to bundle the perpetrators into the police vans as they were not wheelchair accessible. The police had to ask Sue if they could borrow her adapted van to ferry the culprits to jail.
At Belgravia Police Station, the on-duty sergeant realised that the cells were not wheelchair-friendly, at which point the CAT 8 were released on bail. To be fair to the police, they’d never had to arrest people in wheelchairs for the crime of trying to catch a bus.
A week later, the CAT 8 received notification that all charges had been dropped, ‘in the public interest’. Or to put it another way, the Horseferry Magistrates Court wasn't wheelchair accessible.
Five years later and 30 years ago this coming Saturday, 8 November 1995, the Disability Discrimination Act received Royal Assent - it was now an official Act of Parliament.
FOONOTE: My youngest is a wheelchair user and has been living in London for the last 12 months. He reports that the bus service is excellent for wheelchairs, so let’s hear it for the 1995 Disability Discrimination Act and Transport for London.
Thank you for joining me. Have a great week!
Steve
HOST & CHIEF STORY HUNTER
P:S: Incidentally, I am always keen to receive your feedback to help me continuously improve this newsletter and the podcast. Just hit reply to this email and...... let it rip! I respond to every email that I receive.
The author from Atlanta, Georgia was Margaret Mitchell, born 125 years ago this Saturday, 8 November 1900. Margaret’s only book was ‘Gone with the Wind’.
Mitchell was a reluctant author, initially denying that she even had a manuscript for Gone with the Wind.
Having been goaded by a friend that she lacked discipline, Margaret immediately handed her manuscript over to Harold Latham, a vice president and editor at Macmillan Publishing Company from New York City.
Gone with the Wind was published in June 1936 and won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1937.
Margaret never wrote another novel, despite pressure from publishers and fans. She said she had “nothing more to say”. Even if she had been tempted to continue writing, the workload created by Gone with the Wind would have left her very little spare time.
Margaret Mitchell, 1941.
On the evening of 11 August 1949, Margaret and her husband were crossing Peachtree Street, Atlanta. An off-duty taxi driver, Hugh Gravitt, was racing down Peachtree Street. Margaret couldn't dodge the oncoming vehicle, suffering a fractured skull and critical injuries.
Margaret was rushed to Grady Hospital to undergo emergency surgery. She never regained consciousness and died five days later.
Gravitt was charged with involuntary manslaughter and driving under the influence of alcohol. Although he only served ten months in jail, he spent his remaining 42 years haunted by the incident, only confiding in his daughter one week before he died in 1994, at the age of 74.
To date, Gone with the Wind has sold over 30 million copies.
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. GONE WITH THE WIND Rhett Butler as he leaves Scarlett O’Hara.
Out of Curiosity
In the USA today, on average, 11,000 people die each year from drink-driving incidents.
ATTRIBUTIONS
Andrew Mounbatten Windsor: Chatham House, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.
HMS Bounty: Johnhaganart, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.
Etching by Robert Batty (1789–1848), from an original sketch by Peter Heywood (1772–1831), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Mutiny on the Bounty: Trailer screenshot, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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